


Crooked

by nightlibrary



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Murder Mystery, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightlibrary/pseuds/nightlibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall Horan is Detective for the Cheapside Peelers and is, in conjunction with Chief Inspector Paul Higgins, responsible for catching London's most notorious serial killer: Stitch-face. Meanwhile, he occupies himself with hunting down a pair of thieves making a name for themselves stealing a very odd assortment of goods. AU borrowed heavily from The Haunting of Alaizabel Cray, by Chris Wooding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked

**Author's Note:**

> It's possible I've actually lost my mind? It started pouring rain and Lib inspired me and, well, I'm always saying this fandom needs more murder. So, uh? This? This, which is dedicated to anyone and everyone insane enough to encourage me. I promise Liam and Louis show up eventually, and Harry and Zayn earn full names. Also: I've no idea about the tags on this, or literally anything else. I'm an infant with an over-equipped imagination, and I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.

Beneath the Gothic arch of St. Pancras train station, Andrea Samuels, mother to three and skilled weaver, was crossing the street in the rain. Cabs rolled past her, surrounded by great clouds of mist, the rain slapping their outsides and bouncing back. She envied those wealthy enough to couple the necessity of their travel with the luxury of a vehicle; Andrea herself supported her children alone, having refused to force them into the factories. She lived a hard life, but her heart was a gentle one, and her children loved her dearly.

It was worth the rain, then, to be making her way to Doctor White’s, no matter how late the hour and how much he would resent being woken. Her boy had the fever, shaking and curling hard into his blankets, and Andrea--excusing the language--would be damned if she let Jem join the others in the pits. No son of hers would die that way, with her unable to afford a burial. Her children would live.

Beside her on the road, a fine carriage passed. It was pulled by a black stallion and a white mare, and the driver was hunched against the rain, collar of his coat turned up to hide his face beneath a great tophat. He rolled beyond her, his horses trotting purposefully forward, past the arch the opposite way, and disappeared into the rain. Andrea sighed longingly after him, and pulled her umbrella lower.

The worn-through lapels of her coat flapped open, and Andrea clutched at them with her free hand, her chapped fingers scrabbling ineffectually to hold the fabric tighter to her breast. The walk was long--she would have to endure the cold and the sopping wet for much longer still, and she would do it shivering but would prefer to remain warm as she could.

Even as she thought it, the rain began to slow. Had she been less tired, Andrea might have let a smile touch her lips; as she was, she did nothing but note the slackening with a faint sense of gratitude. Then, all at once, the downpour stopped. There was nothing but the splattering and soft chiming of the remaining wet running the cracks of the street and falling like cut rope from the lamp-posts, eerily loud in the sudden quiet.

The moon was out in full, painting the rain-slicked world through which Andrea moved in shades of mirrored gray, steely puddles throwing dimmed night light back at her, like inverse shadows. Andrea tightened her grip on the handle of her umbrella. Despite the softness of the street, the lack of roaring noise and biting wind, she felt a strange sense of dread. There was a tickling along her spine, a weight in the center of her breast that said something here was wrong, though she could not think what.

A frown creased her worn, wrinkled face, the skin toughened by hard work and exposure to the elements to give her the appearance almost of a leatherwork. Andrea had worked all of her life, had never been educated or exposed to much at all of that world, could hardly read but to advance her work. She was constantly caught in a jealous sense of awe at those cleverer than her, and in moments like these felt that they might be able to tell her, words falling from beneath their upturned noses and out of their sneering mouths, exactly that which evaded her. It must be, she thought, the fault her own sluggish mind, that she should be so slow to decipher the source of her own fear. _Fear_ , she thought--and it was as she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck and on the skin of her thick-veined arms that she realized.

She froze in the sulfurous yellow glow of a streetlight, straining to hear in the quiet any sound other than the rain dripping from the lamp above. There was nothing. She began to walk again, ears pricked, straining to hear over the silence that now seemed deafening, a cloak pulled over her head. Had it been a trick? Was it her imagination, fooling her now that she was anxious and hurrying along in the night, preoccupied with the thought of her son, terribly ill and needing her help?

No--she froze again, hearing it. There was an echo in her footsteps, a third damp slap that did not, could not belong to her. She took another two steps, listening hard. A third step bounced back to her. Andrea whipped around, as quickly as she was able. There was no one there: the street was empty, even of cabs.

She kept walking, more hurriedly now, still listening and still hearing it: the quickstep of someone following, as though trying to match her stride for stride and failing. She turned again. There was nobody.

Andrea stared, chest heaving, heart pounding hard in her breast. Terror gripped her like arthritis, seeming to stiffen her joints and hold her in place. Who could be following her, invisibly, all this time?

There was something she knew, something caught in the back of her head, that reminded her of moments like this. A rumor or a story, something familiar to her since childhood. Nothing returned to her. She shook her head, tugging hard on the front of her coat, and turned back around. There was no time now to sort it out; she had to get to Doctor White, for Jem. Fear could hound her if it wanted.

She kept moving, shifting her free hand over herself, tugging at her skirts, adjusting her grip on her umbrella to hold both it and the edge of her coat. She watched the trod of her boots on the stones. The sound kept up. It was not her; or if it was, she could not silence it, and she would have to endure until the end of her journey.

It was a rhyme, she remembered. A rhyme that her son knew, and her son’s friends, and the mother, even, of the boy Jem told her had died of the fever just last week. It was a common thing, a playground song, taught to children as a method of keeping them alert and out of trouble: a kind of threat, or a reminder of a fate that might befall them should they disregard their parents’ warnings. What was it, how did it go? _Close behind you treads, three looks back..._

 _Someone, someone close_ \--Andrea froze again, hands falling to her sides, the top of her umbrella scraping the ground. Into the chilled air, she breathed the word, voice turned hoarse from lack of use and fear.

“Stitch-face.”

There was a scrape behind her, metal on metal. A gasp escaped her. Her umbrella fell from her hand and she turned.

Beneath the lamp-post, only strides behind her, was a man in a dark coat. Atop his head, beneath the brim of a flat cap, was a gorgeous, shining wig of chestnut-coloured hair. He tilted his head up into the light. His face was a patchwork of dark fabric, with two gaping holes for his eyes and a gash for his mouth. He stood still and watched her. In his hand, brighter than the puddles and the silver of the moon, was a long, wickedly curved knife.

“No.” Andrea stumbled back, fingers catching against her dropped umbrella. She felt an urge to pick it up and resisted: she did not have the time to close it into a weapon, and it would slow her down. She spun sharply on her heel and began to run.

She could no longer discern the third footstep amongst the clatter of her own along the road and the rushing of blood in her ears. She raced forward, vision blurring into nothing but gray and black and yellow splashes, the city a washed-out, night-darkened ghost of itself as she threw herself down an adjoining street, not bothering to take stock of where she was or whether she was still on the path to Doctor White’s. Perhaps she ought to have. He might have helped her, let her into his home.

Ahead of her, Andrea saw it: a parked carriage. She let out a scream.

“Help me!”

There was no movement, no sound to suggest that anyone was on board. Andrea chanced a glance over her shoulder. Stitch-face was closer now, nearly upon her. Andrea let out another scream, this one worldless, bloodcurdling. The carriage was growing closer, closer. Andrea splashed through a puddle, further soaking the edge of her skirts. Her boot caught on something hard and unyielding. She felt her stomach drop as she fell, hard, a stone tumbling down a well. A stinging rose in her palms as they scraped along the ground and a sob tore its way out of her mouth.

She scrambled to her feet, dirt caking its way under her fingernails. There was a ripping sound; some seam of her dress coming apart. Andrea paid it no mind. She stumbled forward, desperate now to reach the carriage. The soft whinny of a horse carried back to her and her heart leapt; perhaps she could escape. She could live.

Water splashed up as she skidded to a halt. The carriage horse was in front of her: a single mare, its breath turning to steam in the cool air. She brought a hand up to its harness, heart pounding. She would need to get it free.

It was then that she felt the cool kiss of metal against the side of her throat and the hot press of a body against her back. Her scream died within her as Stitch-face’s mouth touched her ear. She waited for him to speak.

There was nothing. A rush of breath, a tightening of fingers along her waist beneath the coat her husband had worn before he’d left and never come back. Then the flash of the knife, quick, like a kiss or the crash of a guillotine, and Andrea Samuels fell to the ground, dead.

Stitch-face climbed into the seat of the carriage and took up the reins. He whistled, soft and low, and the mare began to move. In the road behind them, Andrea’s blood ran into the ground like the rain, flowing bright red from her neck before slipping away.

 

\--

 

It was morning on November thirteenth, and in the office Detective Niall Horan shared with the Chief Inspector at Cheapside Police Headquarters, another tack was being stuck into a map on the wall. Speared on its end was a tiny flag bearing the number seventy-six, and it was stuck very firmly beside St. Pancras train station on Euston Street.

Niall leaned heavily against his desk, running a hand over his face before finally falling into his chair and staring straight ahead. The map of London loomed up in front of him, stuck through with pins, most of them silver and a select few a vivid green. This most recent tack, seventy-six, was a green one, and it was special because it was far outside of the usual territory of the most cleverly elusive serial killer the city of London had ever seen. Stitch-face.

Sunlight was spilling through the open window to the right of Niall’s desk, falling slantwise over the surface and warming the side of his rather smooth face. Niall was only twenty-three, shockingly young for someone in his field, and even more so for someone so successful; Niall had an intuition bordering on preternatural, and he was renowned for being capable of catching absolutely anyone, no matter the difficulty.

Stitch-face, however, evaded him. Stitch-face, who had been stalking the streets of London for fifteen years, and was presumed at this point to have killed seventy-six young women, and to have failed to kill a mere five over the course of his entire career. Seventy-six to five. A horrifying ratio, no matter how you spun it, and Niall had been trying to spin it in the Peeler’s favor for nigh on two years. He was running out of positive things to say.

“Why St. Pancras, Stitch-face?” Niall muttered, gaze roving over the map of London. “Why Hammersmith?” Hammersmith was another murder that had taken him by surprise. Stitch-face was not known to kill that far west; nor as far east as Poplar, though there was a green pin in that section of the map, as well. It didn’t, Niall thought, frustrated, make any sense to him, and there was no sense that anyone else could offer him. It was argued by those less studied in Stitch-face’s movements that murder itself was senseless, and therefore ought not to be held to a pattern, but Niall knew better. Stitch-face was neat and meticulous. The green tack murders were not. _It didn’t make any sense._

The shrill ring of the phone on Niall’s desk cut through the silence of his office, destroying his line of thought. He lifted the earpiece. “Detective Horan,” he said calmly.

He listened for a time to the gruff voice on the other end of the line. It was Inspector Higgins, who was meant to be prowling the area of murder seventy-six, name Andrea Samuels, thirty-four. He wasn’t; he was in, as he said, Crofters Gate.

“Crofters Gate?”

There was a grunt on the other end of the line. “Burglary, house by St. Luke’s. You’ve gathered what you could about Samuels; poor woman, hard life. Plenty of them. Had three children. One’s half-dead with fever; they’ve been taken in by a cousin or something like that. St. Pancras isn’t the neatest area, as it were.” He sighed. “Not that anywhere is, these days. But the burglary; two boys, said. Again.”

Niall sighed heavily. London seemed to have fallen victim to a plague of serialists. He stood up from his desk.

“On my way.”

 

\--

 

273 Crofters Gate was overshadowed by the mass of spires and gargoyles that was St. Luke’s Cathedral, a building that seemed more foreboding in the bright light of morning than Niall appreciated, if he was honest. The dark, frowning facade of London itself often tired Niall. He was suited to brighter places. The city before the bombings and the poverty and the shocking overabundance of crime, for instance, or Ireland, where he had spent a bright spot of time before feeling he was needed here. He was young, but he had followed early into his father’s line of work: at the age of seventeen, Niall had already earned the title of Detective.

The house itself was a dull green, terraced affair, with sills and steps of beige stone. On the top floor was a series of studio windows seeming intended to draw in light, and on the ground floor were a door and a bay window, above which were two other, smaller windows. The small yard was surrounded by a railing of black iron. The whole thing was a bit grandiose, and shockingly unappealing; functional more than aesthetically pleasing.

The owner of number 273 Crofters Gate was an attractive woman by the name of Caroline Flack. She had blonde hair and sharp blue eyes and she opened her door with a rather impressive scowl on her face, Chief Inspector Paul Higgins just behind her, frowning.

Niall began to greet her, “Hello, Mrs.--,”

“It’s Miss,” she corrected, cooly, “and it’s Flack. Miss Flack. Please come in, Detective Horan.”

Niall lifted his eyebrows at Inspector Higgins, and lifted them higher when he noticed that Miss Flack was wearing brown wool trousers, rather than skirts. She crossed her arms and stared him down, face still clouded with something like aggravation. Understandable, really. Niall offered her a grim smile.

“Horseshit, isn’t it,” he said, and Inspector Higgins’ jaw dropped. Miss Flack, however, smiled back at him.

“Yes,” she said.

Behind her, Inspector Higgins shut his mouth. He was a tall man, burly, with a balding pate and kind brown eyes. He had a serious set to his mouth and very large, very strong hands that were often useful in the apprehension of those criminals who evaded Peelers of a lower ranking than their Chief Inspector, but were not quite as slippery as others. As a partner, he was the best Niall had worked with to date; he was quiet, resourceful, and, if not quite as quick-witted as one would hope, was fairly well-educated. He was mild-mannered and genial. Really, Niall thought, a lot of good could be said about the man, which was not the case with many others Niall had encountered in his line of work.

Miss Flack led them through the hallway into the living room, where she abruptly turned around and resumed watching Niall attentively. He pulled a pad from his coat pocket.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a description,” she said, “though I’ve given one to your friend, here.”

One corner of Niall’s mouth pulled up. “If you please, Miss,” he said, and Miss Flack began to rattle off details. “One tall, broad in the shoulders, brown hair. Strong-looking, both of them; bit wiry. Shorter dark-haired, dark-skinned. Pretty faces,” she said blandly, “and the taller a bit cheeky. Grinned right at me as he disappeared right through the front door. Bastard.”

Inspector Higgins, this time, failed to flinch. Niall felt a little proud. He cleared his throat, and Higgins looked up.

“Whose work does it sound like to you, Paul?”

Inspector Higgins scratched his chin, looking resigned. He glanced at the bay window as if to see out, though the sturdy curtains were shut tight. He nodded.

“Definitely,” he replied, meeting Niall’s gaze. “Styles.”

Miss Flack narrowed her eyes, though her face maintained its newfound friendliness. “Who’s ‘Styles?’”

Niall tilted his head at Higgins, leaving the Inspector to explain as Niall himself meandered around the room. It was made up in deep greens and browns, wood panelled, with a thick rug before the hearth. A number of hard and uncomfortable looking chairs were arranged around it, along with one slightly overstuffed armchair. A dining table of heavy teak sat on the opposite side of the room, and there were a number of small gas lamps that would provide adequate lighting in the night. A set of stairs led up to the rest of the house; presumably the bedroom and bathroom that were Miss Flack’s alone, though there would be space for a second, empty bedroom.

Despite its facade, it was a modest, comfortable place to live, and well-maintained. Miss Caroline Flack, whatever she did and whoever she was, either did it quite well or was someone well-off enough through inheritance to keep herself warm, fed, and clean. She was also, if an impression were to be gathered from her somewhat severe appearance--her trousers, her jacket, her hair wound rather tightly into a braid atop her head--someone not content to cater to anyone’s expectations, no matter how widespread. Niall liked her already.

Higgins’ explanation followed him around the room, humming at the back of his thoughts as he mentally shuffled through the details of the case in time with his partner.

“Styles is known for burgling houses, churches, almost anywhere that’s well-off enough to take a hit,” Higgins began, and Niall heard Miss Flack scoff, “or anywhere that has something in particular he wants. No one really understands the motive; he’s been known to steal everything from the usual to pots and pans, clothing, candlesticks. And he’s got himself an accomplice, name unknown.”

Niall could nearly feel Miss Flack’s skepticism from where he stood. He turned to watch the two of them from behind the armchair, where he could absorb the warmth from the rather generous fire. Styles, from what he knew, was exactly as Miss Flack had described him: young, tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. He left no trace behind that marked any of his work as a unique kind of burglary, but he was, thankfully, seen far more often than Stitch-face, and--a bit more like the killer--did often surprise with the things he chose to steal from his victims. One woman in particular had been left distraught over the loss of one of a collection of wall-hanging clocks.

“How is it you know the one name and not the other?” Miss Flack asked, and Niall smiled despite himself.

“There was one instance,” he started, and the two turned to face him, “in which he was seen, carving his name into the wood of a church pew. It was rather full of names already, but easy enough to make out which was his. ‘Styles.’”

Miss Flack lifted her eyebrows. “How can you be sure it’s his name?”

Niall shrugged, fingering a loose thread on the back of the armchair. “We can’t. But it’s the best we’ve got to identify him. Works for filing purposes,” he said, and flashed her another grin. The corners of her mouth lifted and then fell.

“But it means you don’t know much about him,” she said, “and it means that you don’t know where he is, and that odds are you won’t be returning anything to me.”

Niall’s grin evaporated. Higgins cleared his throat.

“No,” the Inspector said, his deep voice rumbling comfortingly in his chest. “But we’ll do what we can.”

Miss Flack placed both hands on her hips, looking Niall up and down, her eyes snapping like the fire in the hearth. Niall stood, calm, one hand balanced on the back of the armchair and the other at his side. His own blue eyes stared back into hers. He knew what she was going to say before she said it--it was said often, nearly every time he dealt with someone new on a case that was not immediately solvable, and sometimes even on those that were.

“You’re awfully young for a detective, aren’t you,” she remarked. There was a quirk to her lip, though, that suggested she knew exactly how often he heard it. It made him smile for the third time since the visit had begun. He tipped his head to the woman, blonde hair flopping gently over his forehead.

“Yes, Miss Flack. I am.”

She noted his stance, the cut of his jaw, the casual way he’d surveyed her home and the intelligence in his eyes. There was an openness to him that made you want to trust him, and a sharpness to his speech that made you think there was a bit more to him than what could be seen on the surface. A cliched description, perhaps, for a detective, but one that happened to be entirely apt. She tipped her head in an imitation of his own nod.

“Call me Caroline,” she said. Beside her, Inspector Higgins was grinning. Niall crossed the room and held out a hand.

“Caroline,” he said, and she took his hand to shake it. “Would you mind offering a drink? I could use one, this morning, and I’m sure Paul here wouldn’t mind a bit, either.”

Caroline did not mind, and with a glass in hand, Niall Horan commenced the second half of his inquiry. Styles, at least, seemed an easier catch than Stitch-face.

 

\--

 

Not a day’s walk away, in the filthy, downtrodden streets at the center of Camden, two boys hurried between slanted buildings and piles of debris, twin grins on their faces and black sacks in their hands.

They were winding their way deep into the Crooked Lanes, watched by nothing but rats that scurried quickly along, occasionally pausing to paw at the corpses of their fellow vermin, dead and stiff in the gutters. Paper grocery bags were pushed over the streets by the wind. The alleys they walked grew narrower, the turns sharper, everything becoming more confusing like the innards of some madhouse nightmare until, finally, they reached a door whose paint was peeling slowly away, like skin flaking from the body of a snake.

No one else appeared to greet them or witness that the taller of the two had a head of brown curls, and that the smaller was handsome and dark, and that the both of them were cloaked in an attitude of accomplishment.

The smaller darted forward to pull the door open, and then both boys slipped inside, disappearing from even the view of the rats as they returned to whatever dark place it was they called home.

 

 


End file.
